


O Rose thou art sick

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Invisible worm.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	O Rose thou art sick

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from the poem by William Blake, The Sick Rose.  
The events of this story take place sometime after Jopson's promotion.  
I am not involved in the production of The Terror. No one pays me to do this. This story and the work it's based upon are fiction. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and goodnight.

He’s never been a heavy sleeper, or much of a sleeper, at all, really. Whether it’s an inborn tendency or the ingrained habit of vigilance, Thomas doesn’t know. Lying down in bed at night, he feels ill at ease. Wasn’t there something he was supposed to do? Hasn’t he forgotten something? Sleeping brings the opposite of the intended effect. Regardless of the day and what it’ll bring, he wakes before dawn, feeling as though he’s had a lucky escape from something that seeks him, still. If he can measure out slumber, taking only as much as his duties allow or he feels he needs at a time, lying down clothed, or better, sitting during the day at the rare idle moment, it’s more to his liking. It makes for restless nights, but the nights are always restless, with or without Thomas’ leave. Night is naturally a busier time than day, crowded with tasks left undone during the light hours. There’s always something to clear away, something to arrange, something to prepare for. Sometimes, things happen that cannot be prepared for. These usually happen at night. Now more than ever, sleeplessness is something of a virtue.  
Logic dictates that his change in duties should give him some relief, but it doesn’t. The toil is mental more than physical, and certainly, there are fewer individual tasks to keep track of, but it doesn’t bring the same sense of liberty. There’s no finality of completion; no real proof that it’s been done. Orders are determined, delivered, but more often than not carried out by others, sometimes far from his sight. No more is there the plain satisfaction, unknown to others, so all the more precious to the self, of stitching on a button, bringing in clean clothes, filling a teacup. Thomas misses his chores. It makes him ashamed, at his own ingratitude for what the captain has generously given. He strives to be worthy of it, to be the man the captain thinks he is. That is what he should want, now. More privately, though, Thomas allows himself to feel this strange, bitter sense of lack, like a hollow within. When he’s not needed, he lets himself be drawn to looking for things to do. He makes himself useful as to others much as he may in his new position. Their condition has brought a leveling, it’s what allowed his promotion, but a lieutenant, now, may be called upon to work with the men, if there’s a need. There is often a need. This is something. But it’s not enough.  
At night, when Thomas can’t sleep, he walks. The route is circumscribed by the limits of the camp. Further than that, no one sane would dare go, alone and at night. The configuration of the tents happily allows for some variety. There are avenues, alleys, bends and turns, dead ends. He sees the men on night watch. They straighten up, with an awkward salute. He encounters others who can’t sleep, going about their business, hanging out washing or clearing up, by only as much light as is necessary, with halting movements, silent, as though in a dumb show. There’s often a light on in the medical tent, showing sometimes a figure in silhouette, but the entrance is closed, so Thomas can’t see who it is or what he might be doing. There would be solitude, and greater peace to be had at the edges of the camp, but Thomas will only go so far, though this is perhaps less out of fear of what might be beyond than of what he might be neglecting, within. There is always that feeling, a pricking, a gnawing. It’s most acute when he sees the other men, with their solitary nighttime occupations. They know what they have to do, and they do it. For this, he would avoid them.  
Thomas was always attentive, but never officious. The more difficult part of his duty was knowing when to make himself scarce. It was its own kind of discipline, to be worked at, bringing satisfaction when done well. Not quite a skill, it was more like a pain to be endured, learning to endure it. It was out of his control, when he was needed and when he wasn’t, and when he wasn’t, he had no choice but to hold himself at attention. Other things could, and should be attended to, and these gave some relief, but he understood that his value was in his ability to endure. To be still. To be patient. To forget himself. With time came understanding, and with understanding, joy. Thomas came to know, as surely as breathing, the rhythms of the captains moods and activities. He knew when the captain should be allowed silence, solitude, and when it was time for the captain to move, to act. At times, it felt to Thomas that he was the breath animating the captain, or like that which brought him from somnolence to waking. Thomas was not himself, having left himself behind, forgotten. There was no greater joy than that.  
Maybe Thomas is still needed.  
He’s been dismissed, but the captain sometimes doesn’t know his own mind. It’s not a traitorous thing to think. If it were, it would be thought with disdain or bitterness. Not with hope. Not with fondness. Thomas walks toward the captain’s tent. He allows himself one pass a night. More than that would be beyond the scope of duty, lapsing into personal indulgence. Thomas has no personal indulgences. Usually, it’s dark, the captain sleeping peacefully within, Thomas thinks, with a kind of sadness. It’s not sadness for the fact of the matter, but sadness for the turbulence that came before peace. The captain’s earned his peace. Let his sleep be untroubled, Thomas thinks, as he approaches the tent each night. The tent is not dark tonight. Slowly, Thomas moves closer to it. He looks around. There’s no traffic nearby, to suggest an occurrence, a disturbance, an emergency, reason for concern. The front is closed tightly. There’s movement inside, a flutter behind the tent’s skin. Thomas goes to the far side, near the back, where the seams are laced together. The gaps are small, but large enough for an eye to see. Whatever might need to be seen.  
At first, he’s not sure what he sees. His view is clear enough, but the contents of it are incongruous, like two different pictures ripped in half and joined together. There is the captain, right where he should be, in his tent. It’s late, so he’s in his shirtsleeves, his braces down and hanging. That’s an ordinary sight. Thomas has seen it often enough. The part that doesn’t match is Captain Fitzjames. This is not his tent. Where is his shirt? Is he not cold? As he thinks it, Thomas feels stupid, yet he surveys the tent as much as he can from his position, trying to see where the shirt might have gotten to, searching for some indication as to why Fitzjames isn’t wearing it. Illumination doesn’t come, so he focuses on the two figures, the captain and Fitzjames. Regarding Fitzjames’ bareness, Thomas feels the cold, himself, all the more acutely. If it gets to Fitzjames, he doesn’t seem to suffer from it, though Thomas can’t imagine how. They’re all diminished, most of them are actually ill, but as they’re clothed, you don’t see the full extent of it. Like this, it’s unavoidable. There’s a gray cast to Fitzjames’ skin, even in the golden lantern light, stretched tightly over his frame. The light deepens the shadows on him, making it look as though he’s cut into pieces by them. A kind of prickling concern rises in Thomas. Something must be wrong. What is wrong? It can’t be the fact of Fitzjames’ illness, which is, sadly, beyond doubt; it must be its progression. Thomas prepares himself for revelation. Fitzjames raises his arm, his left, bringing full light to the wounds to his arm, their reflection beneath his breast. There’s a shine to the wounds, like that retained by the eye of a dead animal. The captain places his hands on Fitzjames’ arm. Thomas can tell that the captain’s touch is gentle, and is glad of it. The captain looks up at Fitzjames. Fitzjames’ expression is one of dread. Thomas frowns. What is happening? The captain touches Fitzjames’ face, Fitzjames bowing his head slightly, then returns the hand to Fitzjames’ arm. The captain gently moves Fitzjames’ arm. The captain lowers his head toward it. He kisses.  
Thomas is suddenly aware of the beating of his own heart. How long has it been beating at this pace?  
Either from pain or from emotion, Fitzjames closes his eyes, his head falling a little bit more. The captain presses his lips to the other wound to his arm, then to the third. Here, he stays longer, Fitzjames’ arm coming down to rest against him, the captain’s hand moving up to Fitzjames’ left breast. The captain brings his head up, places his hands on Fitzjames’ face. Fitzjames leans down, kisses him. Thomas can hear them breathing, and the sounds that one of them makes, probably Fitzjames. They do come from Fitzjames, Thomas corrects himself irritably. Thomas knows what the captain sounds like. They’re very like sounds of pain, aside from that. If one of them is in pain, it has to be Fitzjames. The captain’s hand rests softly on Fitzjames’ arm as they kiss, but it must still hurt. He bears it, though, which makes Thomas suddenly feel a kind of warmth, a kind of generosity toward him. He feels relief for Fitzjames when the captain moves his hand away, places it on Fitzjames’ waist. They sit down, at the edge of the captain’s bed. Fitzjames has his hand on the captain’s knee. Slowly, he moves it up, his mouth now at the captain’s throat. He pulls back for a moment, unbuttons the captain’s shirt, kisses lower down his neck.  
In their gloves, Thomas’ hands feel damp.  
The captain says something in low voice. Thomas catches the word ‘comfortable’, the upswing of a query.  
“I sleep on my right side,” Fitzjames replies.  
They lie down, the captain easing Fitzjames onto his side. Thomas can see more of Fitzjames than the captain, now. Cautiously, Thomas adjusts his position. Fitzjames untucks the captain’s shirt, his undershirt, exposes an expanse of skin. The captain is pale, as they all are, but his color betrays no evidence of illness. His cheeks, the tips of his ears are pink, Thomas notes with pleasure, as Fitzjames kisses him again, caressing the captain’s side, his back, as he does. His hand slips under the captain’s shirt.  
The captain says something that Thomas doesn’t catch.  
“The cold,” Fitzjames says.  
The captain makes a dismissive sound, sits up, strips to the waist. His shirt and undershirt end up on the floor. Before he can catch himself, Thomas raises his hand to his mouth. He frowns. This is no longer his duty. The captain may do with his things as he wishes, now. They lie down again. Fitzjames’ hands are all over the captain. This is a comfort to Thomas. Fitzjames will make sure that the captain doesn’t catch a chill. He kisses the captain’s throat, his breast; he moves down the bed, puts one arm around around the captain’s waist, kisses the captain’s belly.  
“James,” the captain says. He’s surprised and hopeful, but he’s also cautious. The wound on the exposed side of Fitzjames’ arm glistens. The other wound must be pressed against the captain’s skin. They should both be careful. The captain draws James back up, kisses his mouth. They hold each other tightly, Fitzjames fitting his left knee between the Captain’s legs. They stay like this, moving against each other a little. The captain makes a small sound against Fitzjames’ mouth. Another. He moves his mouth down to Fitzjames’ throat. Another, still. Thomas feels a curious pang, between his heart and his stomach. Fitzjames’ left hand is on the captain’s hip, holding him in place.  
Breathing heavily, the captain moves aside a little. His hand borders the front of Fitzjames’ trousers.  
“I can’t,” Fitzjames says. Thomas looks down. This is a private matter. All of this is private, he reminds himself, a plume of heat rising from beneath his collar. He shouldn’t be here. He feels the impulse to move, but stays where he is.  
“May I still try?”  
Thomas looks up again, sees Fitzjames smile. Fitzjames makes a sound deep in his throat, between a gasp and clipped laugh. “Yes.”  
Thomas shouldn’t look. He wasn’t Fitzjames’ steward. The captain is there, so Thomas can’t look away. The captain undoes Fitzjames’ trousers, exposes him. Fitzjames does the same, with the captain. They continue to kiss as they touch other. After a while, Fitzjames tells the captain to stop, turns onto his back, pulls the captain on top of him. Now, all that Thomas can see is the captain from behind, Fitzjames’ hands on his back, his hips working. He sees the captain kiss Fitzjames, Fitzjames’ hands moving down to his hips, urging him on as the captain rubs against him.  
“Francis,” says Fitzjames. The sounds the captain makes aren’t so different from his sounds of distress. Something behind Thomas’ ribs seems to twist, like a cloth being wrung out. The decisive moment comes, the captain trembling in Fitzjames’ arms.  
“James,” the captain says. “James.” For a time, they stay as they are; they hold each other. Carefully, the captain moves off of Fitzjames as much as the narrow bed will allow, and they turn onto their sides again, to face each other. The captain caresses Fitzjames’ face. They kiss, slowly, gently, fatigue no-doubt setting in. They caress each other, hold each other, the captain’s hand covering the outer wound to Fitzjames’ arm.  
“I know I can’t stay,” Fitzjames says.  
“Of course you can,” the captain says. A pang. Thomas misses most of what the captain says next, except the end, “… tidy up.” A sharper pang. The captain kisses Fitzjames, then gets out of bed. He goes to his jacket, finds a handkerchief. He goes to the wash basin. His back to Thomas, the captain wipes himself clean, buttons his trousers. He wets the handkerchief again, sees to Fitzjames.  
“I don’t suppose I can bring that one out again in polite company,” the captain says. Fitzjames smiles. Thomas smiles. The captain places the handkerchief at the edge of the bed. He retrieves his shirt and undershirt, puts them on. He finds Fitzjames’ shirt, and brings it to him. He helps Fitzjames dress. They kiss, deep and slow, for a long time.  
“I’ll put out the light,” the captain says.  
Fitzjames nods. He takes off his boots and sets them by the side of the bed. He pulls back the blanket. The handkerchief drops to the floor. Thomas looks at it. He frowns. It’s savable. It should be laundered immediately, soaked in hot water first, but there’s no need to cast it away. It’s not useless. Thomas is still staring at it when the light goes out. He hears the captain come to bed, take off his boots. He hears the bed shift as the captain and Fitzjames accommodate themselves. In the dark, they whisper to each other. There comes the suggestion of kisses. The light extinguished, there’s nothing left for Thomas to see, but he lingers. He continues to listen, as the other sounds subside, replaced by the sound of the sleepers breathing. Fitzjames’ breathing is shallower, somewhat labored. The captain’s is deep, even. Now is the time to slip away, no one left awake to see or hear him, but strangely, Thomas remains transfixed. What is he waiting for? There has to be something. Surely, the time will come when Thomas knows, but until then, Thomas will listen, to the captain and Fitzjames drifting deeper into sleep, his eyes still fixed to the place on the floor where the handkerchief fell.


End file.
